by GJ Minett
O’Halloran curses, checks his watch again and decides he can’t afford to leave it any longer. He takes one last look at the boy, then pushes forward, pressing his way through the crowd. Two minutes maximum, he promises himself. Two minutes.
The snow, he discovers as he steps outside, has eased off a little. The wind however has not. It’s bitterly cold, slapping his cheeks and squeezing tears from the corners of his eyes. Even in a heavy greatcoat, which he’s rapidly fastening to the chin, he feels the contrast between these raw arctic conditions and the warmth of the bar he’s just left. He hunches his shoulders and tries to burrow down inside the coat, using the upturned collar to protect his ears from the icy blast.
The main activity appears to be centred on the car park away to his right, where a dozen or so hardy souls, including one complete idiot wearing nothing more than an open-necked shirt and jeans, have gathered just inside the entrance. Adams and Kasprowicz, he notices instantly, do not feature among them. He looks left towards the phone box and his heart leaps in anticipation as he sees the door swing open, only to sink once more as a young girl steps out and starts to pick her way carefully down the slope. Where the hell is Adams?
He starts to head over towards the group in the car park, aware for the first time of a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, an uneasiness whose origins he might possibly be able to articulate if given time to think things through. As it is, he’s three-quarters of the way there before he catches his first glimpse of the crumpled figure lying on the ground, shrouded in a yellow kagoul. His mind instantly flashes back to his conversation with Adams just a few minutes earlier – you go back in now, especially with that cape bone dry, and he’s going to know something’s up. His heart begins to race a little faster. He hurries forward to get a better view, even though he knows by now exactly what he’s going to find. There’s no blood, at least none he can see. He can tell though, from just a cursory glance at the grotesque angle formed by head, neck and body, that Martin Adams is out of the picture now. And a thousand voices are screaming at him, each one telling him that this just isn’t fair – it’s all gone wrong, so horribly wrong. It’s all fucked up.
His facial expression must betray the sense of shock because a woman on the fringe of the onlookers puts a tentative hand on his shoulder and asks if he’s feeling OK – was it someone he knew? He doesn’t answer. He’s confused and alarmed at the speed with which control over events has been wrested from his grasp. Already it seems like a lifetime ago that he was sitting at his table, congratulating himself on how things had worked out.
Now the only thing he knows for sure, an urgent siren drowning out all other thoughts, is that the three of them, he, Kasprowicz and the boy, can’t be here when the police arrive. They can’t afford to be linked in any way with the body lying in the car park. There are going to be far too many questions for which he doesn’t yet have answers. But if he can just earn a little breathing space, maybe this doesn’t have to be a disaster. Might it even be possible to salvage something positive from the wreckage? At the back of his mind, an idea is already germinating – tragic reunion for JMA and his father. Heroic reporter succeeds where all others have failed in tracking them down. Something along those lines. But he’ll need to think it through carefully from every possible angle and for that he’ll need time. And first things first, he has to get the boy and the old man away from here. The further away the better.
He retraces his steps towards the pub, desperate now to get back inside. He breaks into a jog, not something which comes naturally to him, and within five paces he slips and goes down heavily, earning cheers and a round of sarcastic applause from some of those clutching pint glasses in the doorway. He hauls himself upright and brushes his coat, smearing a trickle of blood from a nasty-looking cut at the base of his thumb, but he has no time just now to worry about whether or not that might need a stitch. And as he looks up, he sees that the boy’s already outside, hovering near the entrance. Something has clearly unsettled him. Maybe he’s just curious like everyone else – or maybe a few whispers have drifted inside, a few more details about the accident, like the yellow kagoul perhaps. Whatever the reason, he’s decided to come out and investigate for himself. He’s peering about him, bewilderment and the need for reassurance at war with each other in his expression, as he steps out into the cold.
He heads towards the car park, seemingly unaware of O’Halloran until he steps across his path to block him with an outstretched arm.
‘You don’t want to go there, son,’ he says.
O’Halloran knows the boy must be able to see the flash of yellow from here but there’s nothing to suggest he knows it’s his father lying there. He may be in shock, of course, but seems more like a distracted neutral observer as he turns to face this stranger who’s standing in his way. Then he looks pointedly at the restraining arm, as if inviting O’Halloran to release his grip. Instead he tightens it.
‘Listen to me, John Michael,’ he says, whispering into his ear. And this gets his attention alright – this breaks through the mask in a way the sight of the kagoul apparently could not. The boy whips his head round as if fearing others might be about to descend on him and pushes at O’Halloran’s chest, trying to free his trapped arm.
‘My name’s David,’ he says.
‘Yeah, sure. David Vaughan, right? And him over there, that’d be Peter and I’m guessing his name’s Vaughan too. And I’ll bet he loves fell-running and works at a pub in a little village called Ashbury on the east coast of England, which rather begs the question what’s he doing all the way up here, right? How’m I doing so far?’
The boy looks up at him. He’s so much slighter, a good six inches shorter than O’Halloran and appears more vulnerable at close range, as if several years younger than he actually is. It’s hard to imagine how such an unimposing figure could have done what he did to those girls.
‘Now, we can carry on playing silly buggers till the police turn up, if you like,’ says O’Halloran, taking a handkerchief from his pocket and pressing it against the cut on his hand, ‘only you might want to bear in mind that the media aren’t going to be far behind and they’re going to have a lot of questions of their own – and I promise you’re not going to like them. And at some stage you’re going to realise how much easier this would have been if you’d just done what I said right from the outset instead of wasting valuable time. So, you want to stop pissing me about and listen to what I have to say?’
The boy stops struggling and stares at him. He feels he can afford to loosen his grip.
‘Who are you?’
‘I’m a friend of your father’s. He brought me here with him.’
‘Unh unh.’ The boy shakes his head disbelievingly.
O’Halloran sighs and raises his eyebrows, his patience sorely tested. ‘OK – how about this? He was going to come up by train but changed his mind at the last minute because he managed to borrow a mate’s minibus. He’s only got this evening ’cos he couldn’t get any longer off work. As far as they’re concerned back at the pub, he’s away on a training weekend for one of his fell races. Am I getting through yet?’
‘Why did he bring you with him?’
‘No time for that now. You can ask all the questions you want the moment we’ve got you out of here and somewhere safe.’
The boy shakes his head.
‘I’m not going anywhere with you – I don’t know you.’
O’Halloran gives him his best condescending smile.
‘Listen,’ he says, putting a huge paw on the boy’s shoulder and stooping slightly to look him in the eye. ‘There’s no time to piss about here, OK? You think you’re better off waiting to be picked up by your security people, then fine – you go ahead. But just ask yourself one question before you make a very big mistake.’ He pauses for maximum effect, then leans forward to whisper in his ear again. ‘How d’you think they knew where to find you?’
‘What do you . . .? I don’t understand.
’
O’Halloran waves a hand in the general direction of the car park.
‘You think this was an accident? How many people are here at the moment, d’you reckon? Couple of hundred maybe? And out of all these people, it’s your father who’s been run down. You think that’s a coincidence?’
The boy’s eyes seem clouded with uncertainty.
‘I don’t know . . .’
‘And whoever was driving is in such a panic he decides not to stop, which is nice and convenient because – surprise, surprise – that means there’s no one here to explain what happened and why. That’s a coincidence too, right? Well, let me give you another one to chew on. When he left the pub, your old man was wearing a cape which you brought in yourself, right? Think about it – thick snow, lousy visibility, he’s probably got the hood up. Who d’you reckon they thought was wearing the cape? Eh?’ He looks around quickly to reinforce the idea that someone may be watching them. ‘Look,’ he continues, recognising the need to embroider things into a more convincing weave. ‘I told you your father brought me here for a reason, right? Well, I’m a private investigator, OK? He contacted me a couple of weeks ago and asked for my help.’
The boy studies him closely as if trying to decide just how likely this might be.
‘Your help with what?’
‘He was worried. He didn’t trust the authorities, thought there might be a leak somewhere. He said he was being followed and was worried about meeting up with you in case it put you in danger. He asked me to drive up a few car lengths behind him just to make sure. And now, first time you two get together . . .’ He spreads his hands to invite the boy to work it out for himself. ‘Look, I don’t blame you for being suspicious but right now the only thing that should matter is getting you out of here before anyone realises who you really are. You either come with me or stay here and try to sort it out on your own, in which case good luck to you, ’cos I reckon you’re going to need it by the bucket load. Like I say, son – up to you, only I’ve got myself to think about too and no way am I hanging around here for ever . . .’
He waits for what must be three or four seconds, although it seems much longer. Then he turns on his heel and starts to walk away, counting the steps. He reaches eight before he hears the boy say ‘Wait.’ He turns to face him.
‘How do I know I can trust you?’ the boy asks, still making no move to close the gap. O’Halloran shrugs his shoulders.
‘Honestly?’ he says, taking his wallet from his coat pocket and removing a card, which he holds out in front of him. ‘You don’t. But I’d say you sure as hell need help from someone.’
There’s a moment’s indecision when O’Halloran feels that everything is in the balance. Then the boy steps forward and takes the card from his fingers. Trevor Bassey, he reads: Private Investigator. An address in Skegness. He hands it back.
‘So where are we going?’ he asks.
O’Halloran does his best to disguise the surge of relief. ‘My car’s up here,’ he says.
He bundles the boy into the back of the car, covering him with a blanket, then tells him to wait there.
One down, he thinks to himself. Now for old man Kasprowicz.
February 2008: Ellen
The photos turned up almost immediately. They were lying near the top of the first box they opened, the frames wrapped in tea towels for protection. Ellen uncovered them carefully and studied each in turn, sitting on the floor in the spare room with Kate alongside her.
The first one was the most recent. Ellen instantly recognised the playground on the sea front, which had been like a home from home during her two brief spells on maternity leave. It was pretty much the highlight of the day, a chance to get away for an hour or so from the never-ending merry-go-round of domestic chores and baby paraphernalia that threatened to drown her. It was like a reminder that somewhere out there was a life, waiting for her to reclaim it.
She examined the photo more closely to get a sense of when it might have been taken. Harry was strapped into Megan’s old pushchair, which meant he couldn’t have been more than six to nine months maximum because she’d bought a brand-new one not long afterwards. The wretched thing was more trouble than it was worth – one of the wheels had a habit of locking without warning, causing it to pull suddenly to the right. And Harry had hated it, created hell for as long as he was trapped in it. He developed this less than endearing habit of arching his back every time she tried to fasten the straps, then went stiff as a board, his features screwed into a furious scowl. If she managed to get one arm in, he’d yank it free the moment she turned her attention to the other one. It was easier with Jack there but he rarely came to the playground. Writing time, he always used to say, the moment she reached for their coats. Only chance I get. You have a nice time, you hear?
And Megan certainly hadn’t reached her third birthday yet, she decided. She was still wearing the Barney jacket which they somehow contrived to leave behind at the Adventure Warehouse after her party and never saw again. That must make it early 2000 then.
So who was it, no more than twenty feet away, taking the photo without her even realising? Ellen knew instinctively that she hadn’t posed for it. She wasn’t keen on that sort of thing at the best of times, but in this photo her hair had been blown into oblivion and her mouth was wide open, probably just calling innocently to the children but looking for all the world as if she was screaming abuse at them. She might not be photogenic but she could do a whole lot better than that with a bit of warning. Maybe it was Jack after all, she conceded. He might have taken it on one of his rare forays into concerned parenting but if that was the case, why had she never seen it till now? And how had it ended up here, wrapped in a tea towel in a packing chest in Eudora’s spare room?
She turned her attention to the second photo and recognised it straightaway. She knew exactly when this one was taken. When she came back from Sussex with a first-class degree in June 1995 to start full-time at Langmere, Sam was determined to make a big thing of it. The local press, usually happy to oblige whenever he came to call, were quick to respond – full-page spread, a head-and-shoulders photo taking up at least a quarter of it. The new generation at Langmere.
She’d hated the attention at the time and squirmed her way through the photo shoot, but had to admit that the end result was unusually respectable. Flattering even. She looked professional, quietly confident that the future held nothing but blue skies. Twelve months down the road, she and Jack would be married. Within three years they’d already have two children and the long, irreversible slide in their relationship, which in truth was probably already well under way, would be gathering pace. She felt a moment of tenderness for this wide-eyed innocent and wished there were some way she could protect her from what was to come. She looked closely again at the unassuming smile, as if searching for any hint of doubt, but if there was anything there, she found no trace of it.
She was sure she must have a copy of this photo at home somewhere although she couldn’t remember seeing it for some time. Again, she had no explanation for the fact that Eudora had a copy of her own.
The real surprise though was the third photo.
‘Pretty girl,’ said Kate.
‘Mmm.’
‘Who is she?’
‘No idea.’
She was surprised the Woodwards could ever have imagined it might be her. There were very few points of comparison with the other two photos, if any. This girl was far too pretty and her cheekbones lent a definition to her face that Ellen could only appreciate with a sigh. At that age she had been gawky and plain. She was in her mid-teens before she’d come under the modernising influence of Kate, who was responsible for introducing her to the basic principles of make-up, fashion sense and street cred, as if determined to drag her single-handedly out of the 1950s. The girl in this photo, by way of contrast, carried about her a self-awareness that Ellen had lacked at that age and for some time afterwards.
Apart from the f
act that the girl didn’t look much like her, the photo anyway appeared far too dated. Ellen had one somewhere at home of herself when she was about this age – a glossy colour print of herself on the beach with Bess, the retriever she often used to walk for Sam and Mary. There was nothing on this third photo to say when it was taken but the faded quality of the print suggested the 1950s or ’60s, a good twenty or thirty years before Ellen herself would have been that age. Quite how the Woodwards never managed to spot the anomaly for themselves, she couldn’t imagine.
‘Is this the mysterious Julie then?’ asked Kate.
Ellen nodded. My little primrose.
There were other photos, lower down in the same box, but none of these had been framed. Two large albums with brown covers held some of them, the rest were loose in an A4 envelope. They tackled the albums first. One contained a set of wedding photos, all of them variations on the two pictures on the shelf in the front room. Eudora and her husband had been snapped individually, together and with several combinations of family and friends. The photographer clearly preferred the lych-gate as a backdrop but some had been taken in the porch of the church and also a few indoors at the reception. Ellen turned the pages carefully, hoping with each new photo for some clue as to where she herself fitted into this mystery. Against all logic, she found herself checking each close-up of Eudora for any vague resemblance to her own features but found none that stood up to scrutiny.
The second album was devoted totally to the girl – Julie. There were something in the region of thirty photos, most of them in black and white. The earliest ones had been taken in the hospital, and then at a family gathering which Ellen took to be the christening. Then they followed her from infancy through the toddler stage and into childhood, where her features already hinted at the devastating prettiness that would eventually radiate from the framed photo. Eudora, or someone at least, had taken to writing labels under each photo after a while. First day at primary school. Seventh birthday. Boscombe cliffs July ’61. Josef and Julie ’61. Nativity play ’62. First day at secondary school.